


I Could Come Fridays

by Lymers



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Coffee Shops, F/F, One Shot, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymers/pseuds/Lymers
Summary: Nicole's POV on a budding friendship with Waverly
Relationships: Nicole Haught & Robin Jett, Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught
Comments: 11
Kudos: 78





	I Could Come Fridays

She never said. She didn’t have to. I could see it in her eyes, more the dark circles beneath her eyes, and the way she almost made an effort with her hair. I'd seen it with other mothers, those who came to sit and chat with friends over a coffee, or fruit tea, pretending to be happy, pretending motherhood was the best thing to have ever happened to them, pretending simply pretending. How come I could see behind the happy smiles, the faux laugh, the coos and cuddles of a grizzly infant?

I called her group ‘the Thursdays,’ seven women, always an awkward number to seat in my cafe, their table festooned with the latest baby accessories, prams left outside. She would sit quietly, nodding her approval at whoever was informing the group what their child had done since they last met. There was one, Chrissy I think, the loudest and the proudest, always first to start the conversation, if she wasn’t already talking as she entered. Kisses all round, details shared on baby massage classes, and baby swimming classes, and why do babies need so many classes? They’re babies.

I hadn’t expected to see her on her own. She didn’t strike me as the type who went anywhere on her own. In the hobbies section of all places, while I flicked through a book on gardening in small spaces. “You run the coffee shop,” she said, her child gurgling in her arms. “Red velvet.”

She must have seen the confused look on my face, trying to place where I knew her. “Thursdays,” I blurted, when it finally came to me. “Thought I recognised you. Hi.”

Her eyes went to her baby. “Have you been here long?”

“Ten minutes. You?”

She smiled, more natural than when she was with the other mothers. “No, I meant here. You’re American right?”

“Oh, here, as in…not. Five years.”

“Which part?”

“America?” I remember asking. “San Francisco.”

“San Francisco,” she repeated. “Always wanted to go there.” Her free hand made a waving motion, suggesting something I had no idea what. She must have seen that look again. “The hills, up and down.”

“Oh, right. Hills. We have a bridge too.”

“It’s different here. Not as hilly.”

“No, not as hilly.”

We stood for a while, neither knowing what to say next. I started, she interrupted, then apologised. I began again at the same time as her. We both laughed. “What were you going to say?” she asked.

“Gardens,” I said, pointing to the cover of the book in my hand. “Not my specialty.”

“I know a little,” she offered. “Ours took ages to bring under control. I have a photo.”

She pulled out her phone, flicking through photo after photo of her baby, apologising again, finding the ones of her garden. “Wow, you did all that? Mine’s not as big.”

I remember her studying my face as if there was a question she almost wanted to ask. She slipped her phone back into her pocket. “Well, good luck,” she said, moving away, the question remaining unknown. 

“Hey, I’ve had a cake delivery this morning. Red velvet.”

She stopped, her back to me. “I should be going. It’s her feeding time.” She turned, her eyes telling me she wanted something, she just didn’t know yet what that might be. Or, maybe she did. “I could, at yours.”

“Could what? Oh, right, sure I’m okay with that.”

The walk to the café from the library took hardly any time. It’s why I went there, a break from serving when it was quiet, leaving Robin in charge. I held the door open for her, allowing the pram to fit through the gap, a wheel catching the end of my boot, more apologies. I’ll never get over how often people apologise here. She made herself comfortable in the last bench towards the back, pulling out a large linen cloth to throw over her shoulder, wriggling underneath to give access to that part of her anatomy. Oh to be that child, sucking on its mother’s breast.

I busied myself making her a hot chocolate, with extra cream on top and a dusting of cocoa powder. There was no one else with us as I placed it on the table, a slice of her favourite cake alongside. I sat, deliberately not looking at her nursing, playing with the edge of a napkin. I’m not sure if it was an accident, the cloth falling from her shoulder exposing what lay beneath in all its fullness. Skin so soft and pale, its size surprising me given her petite form. 

“I wish she would take a bottle,” she said, gently unlatching the satiated infant, placing her over a shoulder, patting her back, her left breast still on display, a dark nipple presenting itself. “Perry thinks she should feed for as long as she wants.”

“Perry?” I asked, avoiding eye contact as she covered her naked breast. 

“My partner. He read somewhere it gives babies a better start.”

“I guess,” I replied, not knowing, glancing once more at the now-covered part of her body. “What’s her name?”

“Sophie,” she replied. “After her aunt. I’m Waverly.”

Our eyes met. “Nicole.”

“Nicole,” she repeated. “So, where’s this garden of yours?”

I wanted to say it was sitting right in front of me, but that would have been too cheesy. “At the back. Didn’t realise this place came with one. Not really my thing.”

“Can I see?” she asked, my head nodding, leading the way, her child asleep in her arms. “It’s the right time of year.”

She became my Wednesday girl, arriving shortly after ten, leaving at two, four hours of bliss. If the café wasn’t busy I’d help her in the garden, trimming bushes, digging soil, planting flowers she brought with her. I would offer to pay for whatever she brought, Waverly declining, saying my garden project was payment enough. I stopped charging her for the coffee and slice of cake.

We would have lunch in the garden, if it was warm and sunny. If not we would head upstairs to my flat with something from the café. She looked less tired, her hair brushed back off her face, a little makeup applied, her clothes still casual, the edges of her hoodie bearing the dirt from her efforts to bring my garden back to life. It was me she was bringing back to life, with every visit. 

She still formed part of ‘the Thursdays,’ still as quiet, our eyes deliberately not meeting, knowing we had Wednesdays to ourselves. It was raining I recall, that particular Wednesday. I assumed she wouldn’t be coming, not in such foul weather. I could have hugged her as she entered, dripping water everywhere, the pram covered to protect Sophie. “It’s supposed to be good for it,” she said, shaking her umbrella outside the door, while I held it open. “Can’t do much today.”

“More time for us,” I say, wheeling Sophie through the café towards the stairs. “Robin you okay while I pop up?”

“Sure boss. I’ll call if I need you,” he says, winking.

“Robin seems happy,” she says, removing her coat, placing it on the back of a chair to dry out.

“He’s started dating. How’s the writing going?”

“Slow. I still have a baby brain. I’m not sure I’ll cope back in an office.”

My heart lurches. “When do you return?”

“Another month. I’m going to ask for shorter hours.”

“Guess you’ll be working Wednesdays.”

She shrugs. “Perhaps. This has been fun.”

“The garden looks great.”

“I’ll miss it.”

“Me too.”

We sit in silence, neither sure how to go forward from this point. I look over, Waverly is studying my face. “I’ll miss you more,” she says, as I reach to brush away a wayward strand of hair from her face, her hand coming up to touch mine. “This is new for me.”

I pull away. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s really okay. I like you.”

“You’re with Perry.” Her sigh is heavy. “I’m not a homewrecker.”

“We haven’t, not since Sophie. It’s just not the same.” Her honesty surprises me, my eyes returning to her face, to her lips. Should I? I’ve wanted to for weeks, holding back, not able to bring myself to do what my heart is pleading with me to do from within my rib cage. Her head lowers. “I wish I wasn’t.”

I reach for her chin. “Hey, it’s okay. We can be friends.”

There is panic in her eyes. “I thought we could be. I didn’t want this to happen. I kept saying to myself you wouldn’t, not with me.”

“I want to,” I reply. “I really want to, but if it means coming between you and…”

She moves nearer, her lips at last on mine, the moment I’ve been waiting for, the moment I wasn’t brave enough to initiate. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” she says, pulling away. “Was it okay?”

I nod, my heart triumphant, rejoicing at what we have done. I pull her towards me, our lips locking again, the sweet scent of chocolate on her breath, her perfume driving me wild. She is on my lap, her legs straddling me, her arms locked round my neck, her fingers playing with my hair. My hands are on her back, under her top, her skin warm to the touch, as are her lips. I can’t get enough, her breasts pressed against mine, her weight on my thighs, wishing to stay like this forever.

She stops, her head turning to check on Sophie, a look on her face to suggest she is calculating whether she has enough time. Her fingers reach for the buttons on my shirt, tentatively unfastening the first, then the second, then the third, agonisingly slow. “Is this okay?” she asks, my head telling her it is. “And this,” she says, her hand slipping inside, brushing against my skin.

I gasp, my own hands tugging at the bottom of her hoodie, attempting to lift it up. She assists, effortlessly pulling it over her head in one movement, her hair tousled in the process. Her hands find the bottom of her tee shirt removing that too in one swift motion, leaving her with just one item to go. She pauses, suddenly unsure what to do, nervous to reveal herself fully to me. “You don’t have to,” I say. “This is perfect.”

“I want to,” she replies, her hands reaching to unfasten it, letting it fall between us. “I’ve never.”

Her eyelids flutter as I touch her bare skin for the first time, a tinge of guilt at having at my fingertips what belongs to Sophie. I bring my tongue to her, the lightest of licks, scared if I suck I might end up with milk in my mouth. Her moan, the arching of her back tells me she wants this too, as badly as I do. 

Sophie stirs, Waverly’s reaction immediate, removing herself from my lap, going to check. “It’s fine,” she says. “She’s still asleep. We have time.”

“For what?” I ask.

Waverly takes my hand, moving it to the button on her jeans. “For this.”

I pull it away. “We can’t. Not in front of your...”

“Where?” she asks.

My eyes glance at the door to my bedroom, Waverly catching on, pulling me in that direction. She feels my resistance, stopping, turning. “I want to,” I say. “I really want to.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Completely.”

“With me.”

Waverly’s hand reaches for the handle, pushing the door open, taking in the room, and the bed, and the pile of exercise clothes on the floor. “I need you to tend my garden for a change,” she says.

I laugh. “Have you been waiting to say that to me?”

She turns, taking my face in her hands, placing a kiss on my lips. “Fridays are good for me. I could come Fridays if that’s okay.”


End file.
